Forgive Me, Father
by A Libertine So Grim
Summary: <html><head></head>... for I have sinned. Lorenzo beats his assassin at his own game. Lorenzo/Giovanni, mature content.</html>


Lorenzo de' Medici was not a man known for his piety. His interests were neither mundane nor spiritual; he was a man of art and progress alone, by birthright surrounded by men of each quality he himself lacked or disregarded. His love for beauty and tranquility did nothing to belittle his intelligence or his faith, despite the foul tongues that, sometimes, came off by horrible accidents he certainly had nothing to do with.

He lived in the age of change – promoted it – and his beliefs had grown to reflect his view of the world. He attended the mass to please his subjects, taught his children to love God as they loved him and donated to the Holy Mother Church, albeit less than they besought. Yet with his own faith, he wanted to be left alone; like every day that began at sunset and ended when he laid down his ledgers with a sigh, he would seek peace from within the ornate walls of his chapel.

It had been yet another wearying day under the Florentine sun before his feet had brought him to his sanctuary: he had sat through a long audience, suffering tedious politicians and squalid sycophants only to exchange their company to his more solitary duties after what was but a fleeting moment of tranquility in the company of his beautiful family. Florence was in bloom, so much as to trouble him less with the ledgers and more with his poetry; his children were in perfect health and Clarice overjoyed of the child she was carrying, yet something was amiss in his frail state of bliss.

In the end of the day, the sounds of his court had diminished once and for all behind closed doors where he now stood, drinking in the stale air that was his alone for the longest of times. As he leant to light a candle before the statue of _Madonna_, the slightest of breezes cradled the pale flame and caught his sharp eye. A quick look around affirmed that he was alone, yet a fluttering curtain betrayed a window left ajar – something Father Maffei's meticulous character would not condone, even if he yielded to Lorenzo's orders to air out the heavy scent of incense that gave him such a headache.

It was then he _felt _another presence, a gut sensation that made his heart miss a beat and his mind unveil the stillborn mystery. Someone had entered the chapel through the window – it could be no one else than the man he had waited for, his deadliest weapon sent to Venice. He would never mistake this familiar, elusive scent for anything else than Giovanni: sunny days and smoky nights, etched in so deep that they had become one with the faint musk of the man's skin. Hide and even out his breath as he might, wash himself and don a clean robe, none of it mattered to the senses of one who had shared his bed often enough to wake up the second his lover even thought of slipping away into the night. Giovanni Auditore was right here, completely unaware that his presence had been noticed.

A marriage of poise and penitence in his game of hide and seek, Lorenzo de' Medici held the lengths of his robe between his ringed fingers and swept into the sinner's side of the confessional, quietly closing the rickety door after him. Silence and darkness engulfed him to the small, cramped space whose walls knew less of his transgressions than they should; duke of Florence by grace of God, he was close enough to Him without greedy intermediaries.

Giovanni Auditore knew this as well, yet tonight, he was in for a surprise. It had been too long since His Magnificence had had the privilege of meeting his assassin in private, without the obnoxious company of that ass Alberti or the Maffei brothers, long enough to drive him mad with something between pining and vengeful lust. With the assassin back sooner than he had expected, for reasons he had yet to report on, and the hooded character occupying the confessional to mistake for Father Maffei, the duke gracefully granted himself the delectable opportunity to test his Master Assassin in a devout Catholic's guise.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." His voice dropped a deliberate notch, disappearing like particles of dust to the slivers of dawn through the stained glass. He paused, anticipating the assassin's next move; he would not be stupid enough to speak in his own voice, yet he could not possibly pull a credible falsetto to fool a man he had served from nursery to wedding bed and forth. This, he reminded himself, was the man who had taught him to play chess – to anticipate, to suffer inevitable losses to triumph in the end – and whose ravenously self-satisfied gaze upon a checkmate would be victory enough for any other loser than Lorenzo de' Medici.

His answer was an encouraging hum, more suspicious than identifiable. Perhaps that was the sound of an utterly bored confessor – or definitely Giovanni Auditore smirking deviously, waiting for the moment to dart at his pious little prey. He imagined all the possibilities – inquiries that could easily earn him a place in the gallows, or perhaps something involving the assassin's superhuman reflexes to whet Lorenzo's sudden appetite – and mustered a downcast look, as if his confession was too grave to word. He knew Giovanni could see him perfectly with that strange ability of his, through darkness topped with the thin veil drawn over the grating, and every bit of self-control he had learned would now be tested.

"I have committed the sins of the flesh with another, outside my holy union with my wife. Sodomy," he emphasized sharply, a small inner triumph coursing through his veins at the minute hitch in the assassin's breath. Knowing Giovanni, his mind was already compiling a blacklist of the young and the beautiful that might have had their sights on his lord; it was a delightfully arousing little game that his assassin often initiated, sly inquiries on whom His Magnificence might grace his bed with should Giovanni's talents not suffice. By no means jealous, the assassin was merely unwilling to share – or, as the man himself claimed, _merely cautious_ – and Lorenzo found it perfectly just that he would have a moment to himself to doubt his own charm.

"I did it again and again, in ways unimaginable to the pure of mind and body. When he leaves me, every thought of him becomes an affront to nature and I succumb… to the temptation at hand." Theatrics never were his forte, yet the little he had absorbed from his drama lessons would now serve him well. Giovanni, whose silver tongue often passed on to impressive vulgarities, all too often delighted in infuriating attempts to melt his steeled façade; little did he know of the emotion he was capable of behind his unyielding reins, the anger and sorrow that kept him awake through his solitary nights where his only reassurance of Giovanni's life was a hastily scribbled letter or something anyone else would call hope.

What was that rustle – a killer's hand sneaking to adjust his garments where some particularly prominent veins now throbbed in anxiety? One for Lorenzo, the duke thought with an inward sneer, dismissing the urge to loosen up his own collar and fan the flame that was cosily simmering in the pit of his stomach.

"He consumes me, Father. He is the devil incarnate, sent to possess me and violate me, yet I cannot resist him. His mouth when his words become deeds, his hands when contracts turn into caresses… when he no longer bows but bends down before me." The more flagrant his words became, the deeper was his simmering satisfaction that stemmed from nothing but the true essence of their trysts. If only he could see Giovanni's face now, the faintest of blushes gathering at his cheeks, right next to the twin birth marks; his curled lips dry with want, fumbling for words that could save him from this predicament, utterly and uncomfortable aroused from mere words. As much as he loved seeing his lover writhe in heat, he was not cruel; yet cruel would be to drop the _pièce de résistance_ he had in mind, as well as on the tip of his tongue.

"Help me find the answer, Father… How were you thinking of leaving my chapel in such a state, Giovanni Auditore?" he whispered through the grating, placid satisfaction blooming within his chest as the assassin finally gave in with a distressed grunt. Darkness was merciful enough to drape the state of certain… things, yet Lorenzo knew his pointed look downwards would not go undetected. In this particular time and space, he found it just to thank God for the comfort of his robe – and the fiery throb, a very just retribution in the confines of Giovanni's skin-licking leather breeches.

"Would 'alive' be terribly optimistic, Your Magnificence?" There was a hint of chagrin in Giovanni's low, husky voice, so close that his sweet breath made Lorenzo's lips tingle in yearning. He was the very opposite of Lorenzo; rarely erring, yet ever prompt to acknowledge his mistakes, fuel to his master's exasperated desires. Yet there was little pleasure in punishing the good child that the assassin played so well, and Lorenzo was nowhere near done.

"I have guards and servants in every room and corridor of my residence. They have slain or arrested trespassers less suspicious and less… armed. Or were you thinking to finish yourself off while listening?" he inquired, concealing his amusement as he imagined the train of thought and wreck of instinct within the assassin's head. It was the bitter taste of one's own medicine, such a lascivious narration usually initiated by Giovanni, yet the assassin had never been a man of simple tastes; the familiar hearth of his eyes was promise enough that he would soon blend the disappointment with a taste of sweetness.

"If anything, both of my professions have taught me patience, my lord." _Pazienza_, he said, the virtue rolling on his lips more like a royal dessert than a reverent prayer. If Lorenzo had ever doubted his faith, now the next thing he felt was his nose squashed against the gilded grating, his mouth devouring the blasphemy from those ever so divine lips so privy to his name.

Yes, Giovanni Auditore had returned to Florence, in one piece and tasting of sweet sin as Lorenzo made sure he was not dreaming.

"_Very_ good," he whispered, drawing a hasty draw of breath before his one true confession, "for I am not so blessed." Giovanni answered with equal thirst, his tongue so knowingly slathering every needy spot within his lover's mouth so prudishly caged in damned metalwork, the exquisite scent of sea and earth drifting in with each filled space in between.

"Now, Father… how do I atone for my sins?" he asked, his breath shaky and heated from the kiss to contrast his adamant words. In his hand, he held his long-ignored rosary, amethyst and gold drawn from the depth of his robe by instinct; when Lorenzo prayed, it was brief and in earnest, plain pleas for his wife's safe delivery or his people's happiness. He would not dare disclose how often he turned to God to bring his sinner back safe - to his city, to his side and to his bed – for he was not a man to beg.

He never had to, for Giovanni gave him what he wanted or needed without second guesses. "An _Ave Maria_ for every wicked thought," was his sure and composed verdict, delivered with a gaze most telling of the nature of Giovanni's mind as his fingertips rose to meet Lorenzo's through the grating. Cold beads rolled between smooth and scarred skin, pressing their invisible mark in heated flesh as the rosary chimed in silence. It was the same haunting, sensual touch from Giovanni's fingers as they so effortlessly glided beads over to the other end of the abacus, those nights of assistance that proved the assassin's preference in bookkeeping than religious guidance…

"A day of fast for every forbidden kiss," Giovanni continued, placing soft, teasing kisses on every small expanse of skin within his reach, "and for each cry of sinful pleasure, may your voice ring out to Heaven as you flagellate your naked body nightly." His slow, sultry words rushed straight south, no doubt a verbal retribution for what had taken place after the assassin had successfully pried into one of Lorenzo's more questionable tastes. Old scars were joined by new ones, loving lashes delivered in full agreement and carefully tended to after the eagle had been properly tamed.

"Amen." Lorenzo's voice faded into the expectant, suffocating void of unspeakable thoughts. If his atonement was to be perpetual starvation, his vocal chords shredded to nothing and his back lashed raw, he would not hesitate to bring justice upon the one who – with a mere mock sign of the cross – made his body ache for those criminally skilled fingers to bless him in the very same fashion.

For a moment in the stifling silence, Lorenzo was almost certain that his assassin would feel little pity for the beautifully carved confessional and ravish him through the grating; it was a slight disappointment that his performance merited but a bored little applause. "On your permission, my lord, I must applaud your skills. You would make a splendid assassin, Your Magnificence." Giovanni licked his lips, their curve soon a lewd grin; it was usually an entirely other set of skills that the assassin dared to compliment on.

Lorenzo allowed him the small indulgence of his wry smile, certain that this would not be the last act worth of applause. "However, I do prefer a head-on confrontation, _signor_ Auditore. Not only is it immoral, but also highly unsatisfying to see your enemy face-to-face as you make your move," he orated, caressing the heated wood of his makeshift birdcage with long, sure fingers as he slipped out of the box and soundlessly entered the other side.

"So I have learned, and through the _hard_ way, milord," Giovanni now confessed himself, grinning and completely unabashed of his frustrated state before his lord. Exuding the sweltering heat of August wayfaring, days on horseback and aboard from Venice, he remained immaculately clad in the assassin's gear, so curious and desirable that Lorenzo dawdled no longer and crushed his lover in a passionate embrace. His hands simulating a doctor's, he explored the body beneath for fresh wounds or fractures, finding none yet refusing to let go of the salty taste of his skin, the clink of Giovanni's belt as he-

"My, I don't think this fine arse of yours has suffered enough from the pile of ledgers I trusted in your care." Delivered with a perfectly approving grope, the assassin's crude remark brought a warm flush to Lorenzo's cheeks – both of them, he acknowledged through the thick fabric of his robe now rolling up with his bold, grinding movements deep in the older man's lap. How long he had gone blindfolded, only contenting himself with smouldering, undressing gazes and fleeting kisses that left him dreaming of the wonders Giovanni's hooded body might hold. Young and brash, the Medici heir had dared to demand the impossible… God, how the assassin's sardonic response had reddened his cheeks and thrown him into a passionate fit in the older man's unyielding grip – his absolute orders delivered in more than just words, giving birth to one of the myriad sleepless nights of unadulterated, undeniable pleasure.

"Watch your words, old man. If I did not know any better use for that foul tongue, I'd have it cut off," Lorenzo warned sharply, seizing said tongue in a relentless kiss to further provoke the demonstrations of that masterful mouth. The assassin offered no resistance; he gladly offered his mouth for plundering, anchoring one hand in Lorenzo's hazelnut-colored locks and the other around his waist. Words of retort died on Lorenzo's lips, only to reincarnate as bold assaults of teeth and a hasty deliberation on each of the assassin's taut buttocks trapped against the wooden partition; his passion for well preserved works of art growing more evident to Giovanni's tangible delight. No portrait painted or sculpture ever made could even remotely resemble the godly figure of his assassin; his immaculate musculature graced by a labyrinth of old scars, his sugar brown skin flushed by the duke's avid caresses where they chanced upon a particularly tender spot.

"_Old man?_ Someone needs to teach you to respect your elders, boy." Giovanni's autumn eyes twinkled with barely restrained laughter, framed by those very fine crow's feet that Lorenzo found strangely endearing in their contrast to the body that so outrageously defied the gap of thirteen years in between. So tough yet so very gentle, a blade in the crowd just as sharp as his hearty sense of humor, his assassin lived in the shadow of the Venetian masks he had crafted for his roles; father and husband, banker and assassin, the much older lover of the duke of Florence – who was he, the stranger he had bedded to but _try once_?

Lorenzo's answer came with both spite and adoration, their burning emergence as he splayed his elegant hands on the assassin's heaving shoulders. "You are a reckless, irreverent madman, Giovanni Auditore. It will be the downfall of you, and I will wash my hands of the mess," he hissed half-heartedly, a sinful contradiction of his words as he sank against the rickety partition, pulling his uncivil servant down with him. Every time he watched Giovanni leave for a mission, a deep, primal feeling surged in the pit of his stomach; it was the same all but enjoyable ache that overtook him as he beheld yet another leap of faith, his lover's perfect body tensed like an eagle in flight. Giovanni's hefty frame atop him made him sigh in delectable unease, the fragrant track of days of travel embroidered to the sun-kissed skin he wanted exposed against his own in circumstances less claustrophobic than the confessional he was now determined to soil.

"Yes, I imagine that is what is advised to do if your hands get _dirty." _Giovanni's heated breath sank into the hollow of Lorenzo's neck with his words, his rough fingertips between the duke's ribs drawing out impassioned gasps and vengeful touches in response. He waited for Giovanni to mark him as his own, drain the love out of his neck and sink his talons in his heart – yet he was so careful lest Clarice would notice, so reverent such worship became yet another sacrilege without evidence. So it became Lorenzo's privilege to band his bird, to bathe the shell of his ear and trail down with his tongue until the succulent junction of his jaw and ear was his to claim in a deep, devouring kiss.

"And what do you think is advised for cleansing a filthy mouth?" he dared, that snake-like tongue teasing his neck as an immediate espousal of his challenge. His collar came unbuttoned in a flash, the chill of absence soon smothered by calloused hands – hands that were everywhere at once, twiddling the sore nubs of his chest and exploring the tender skin underneath the last of his most inconvenient garments.

"In my days, soap," Giovanni murmured to the duke's ear, pausing for a grunt as his oppressor seized the opportunity and stretched his long, slender fingers for a slow, teasing sweep over the terribly straining laces of his breeches. How he steeled himself, struggling not to buck into his lord's touch, evoked little sympathy from Lorenzo; tonight the outrage was not Giovanni Auditore, the man all of Florence wanted dead or alive for a menial amount of florins, but the one who held all the florins of the city in the palm of his hand.

"We live in an age of change, _assassino,_" he whispered, his sudden, violent grip on Giovanni's nape purely ceremonial as his assassin knelt down without a word of command. His back arched beautifully under Lorenzo's boot, the vivid colours of the Medici coat of arms fluttering from the movement as the assassin positioned himself between the duke's legs. The contrast of his coarse hood and the silky locks that cascaded from underneath brought Lorenzo down in shivers, yet the warm, still smooth cheeks nuzzling against his thighs worked hard to appease the delectable agony of waiting.

"I never quite cared for the taste of soap, milord." Lorenzo wanted to moan when Giovanni chuckled against his burning skin, leisurely dragging his tongue down his length for a flick at the tip and then up again along the thick vein of the underside; it was just one trick of the man's inexhaustible array of ways to drive him to the brink of madness before bringing him to that more accessible peak his body now screamed for. A smile flicked on Giovanni's lips before he performed the act of mercy and took Lorenzo deep in his mouth, humming in twisted pleasure as he began to pleasure his lord.

Breathless and holding back profanities, Lorenzo clung to the grating, his straining fingers turning red and white in turn with Giovanni's excruciatingly slow motions. Every ache and doubt born of the sharp corners and edges of wood gave way to the velvet pleasure his man was blindly giving him; deepening and gaining pace, so determined to send him over the edge in mere moments that he cared little for the warning his lord delivered deep with the heel of his boot.

"Stop." Sharp despite the crippled syllables, Lorenzo's voice alone brought the assassin's ministrations to a brief halt, meriting the slightest hint of teeth as a question. His hand descended through Giovanni's tangled hair in a quivering caress, ghosting across his face for a brief rest over any inquiry that might issue from his mouth. Pearls of sweat obscured his vision, the painful blaze in his loins his mind, yet he had made his mind moments ago; he wanted more of Giovanni and none of the ceaseless slander should his lover have him come from that alone.

"Now, continue," he commanded, straddling his assassin's invitingly parted thighs to free his long-neglected manhood. From the first heated breath to the inebriating feel of Giovanni's shameless erection against his own, he had wanted him closer, his raw force raging through him as they made love, the way he never initiated and rarely yielded to – an idea his lover did not seemingly object to as Lorenzo's long fingers stroked him slowly, light yet firm enough to remind him who was in charge.

Yet when Giovanni took his master's hand away from his own pleasure and pressed it to his lips, so slowly kissing each of his knuckles, the golden flash of his gentle eyes made Lorenzo's heart flutter like never before. He sat, crucified in his gaze, and shivered as his assassin's wordless promises came kept.

He claimed Giovanni's distressingly silent mouth, worrying soft lips and twisting the wicked tongue to mask the piercing pain that the first intruding finger shot to his nerves. Yet Giovanni's touch melted into him, hot and teasing like his words and kisses that took turns on the duke's thin lips, willing him to relax and accept more of the impending pleasure – the heart-stopping assault on that sore spot inside him.

His assassin was swift and thorough, true to his creed even where his hidden blade was replaced with flesh and blood, and it was but a short initial pain that seated him down to his throne. So hard and warm beneath him, even more so buried to the hilt, Giovanni's body held him still in a viselike grip until the cadence of their entwined breaths became one and Lorenzo's firm orders left faint teeth marks in their wake along his lover's earlobe.

"Move for your life, assassin."

So Giovanni complied, across the line of control and abandon, moaning sweet nothings in his rapture as he made love to the duke of Florence, thrusting at a feverish pace that had his lover rocking harder against him. Lorenzo's back arched in agony, in pursuit of the white-hot pleasure his lover sent through spine and trembling limbs as his fingernails raked his assassin's proud neck with the entrancing rhythm of their coupling. He wanted to cry out Giovanni's name, to give in completely, but his eyes kept him spellbound; how glorious his love was from up above, so strong and so sinfully good inside him, filling him completely with each fluid motion he savoured with a violent clench Giovanni so kindly reciprocated on his own neglected arousal.

He endured, his every muscle coiling like a good garrote at the assassin's raging thrusts, transfixed as he witnessed the transformation in Giovanni's body; his eyes turning sharp gold, his entire body tensing for climax and then shattering in his hold with a roar that brought the Lorenzo to his own release, the sweet relief of hellfire, the point of no return he had passed with the tart realization of how much he really loved Giovanni Auditore.

Spent and deboned, he collapsed into strong, protective arms, caught by his mouth to kiss away the pain exhausted pain of separation as his lover pulled out. This was the moment he hated the most; how gentle Giovanni was, making him feel fragile as one of those ancient codex pages in the assassin's hands, yet even more so, how the moment of parting would come crashing down. Lorenzo hated it, yet he loved the insatiable lust that still lingered in the air as Giovanni held him close and sighed.

"If this is how much you missed me in my absence, I shall consider myself a lucky man, Your Magnificence," the assassin confessed with a starved smile, earning his wandering hand a deft slap underneath his Magnificence's robes. The silky touch of his handkerchief did not cease, though, but ghosted over his exhausted parts to wipe away the sinful evidence.

Lorenzo made a sound of utter disapproval, his glower serving but to invigorate the slightly drowsy assassin, who immediately inclined his ear to the gracelessly sprawled duke in his lap. "Why, I actually got things done without your nightly distractions. I wrote a novella," he conversed, fighting the urge to gloat like a child as Giovanni's eyes sparked with admiration – the kind he remembered from years ago, when he first had bared himself for his already stripped and experienced assassin. Involuntary shivers ran down his spine, soothed by his lover's hand through his sweat-drenched silks as he draped himself casually against Giovanni's relaxed body.

"Most intriguing, milord. What kind of a masterpiece did you put before your ledgers?" Giovanni inquired, in his eyes the golden glow of genuine interest as he stroked his lord's mussed hair. A master of deceit by trade, he would still speak his mind unlike the rest of Lorenzo's hired swords and live to slip yet another infuriating remark about Lorenzo's doings.

Perhaps it would not hurt to have Giovanni read some of his writings after all, for no flattery was to be expected. "The kind where Giovanni Auditore will end up feeding the fishes in the Arno if he does join me in my chambers to hear the rest," Lorenzo articulated sharply, running a finger up his lover's throat and in a teasing circle around his Adam's apple. At the mention of that filthy river, his fear of water would still surface despite Giovanni's timely intervention some twenty years ago and the solemn promise of swimming lessons that had been the birth of a long and twisted story therefrom. There were times he indulged in filling the gaps of that faint memory, imagining Giovanni in the elusive age of nineteen, a mere eaglet and untamed; his lissome body tensed for the dive, rivulets of near filth licking his chestnut locks and creaseless features. Perhaps he looked something like his younger son, Ezio; that ageless, disarming smile and smouldering eyes, an air of cockiness easily forgiven by those easily smitten…

With the sinful realization gave the guilty ache, and it had nothing to do with the rough ride. The distant toll of bells wormed to his soundscape like a tidal wave over Giovanni's low, content purr, aborting his sensual escapade. Young Ezio, like the rest of Giovanni's family, was waiting for him, they had been waiting for weeks to come; he could not deprive them his assassin's first night of return. Nor could the duke ever forgive himself would his own children miss a bedtime story by his own pen – quite not the one he had meant for his lover's eyes.

Ever the same, it took but one poignant look into the beautiful, painful eyes of Giovanni Auditore to make him understand. A hand came to rest on his cheek, whisking away a stray slick lock of hair and trailing down with affection Lorenzo knew to be true.

"Please give my regards to _madonna_ Maria and your lovely children," he said mildly, taking Giovanni's hand as he stood up and straightened his robes. The lack of air and the gradual aftershock in his body made him slightly nauseous, and Giovanni noticed, following suit immediately and pressing his lord tight against his chest.

"And mine to _madonna _Clarice and your little ones. Your brother as well," he replied with courtesy, thumbing the cold knobs of Lorenzo rings before giving in to the bittersweet moment of parting and brushing his lips over the signet ring. His eyes caressed Lorenzo's one last time before they narrowed in thought as the assassin opened the door, panning the room to make sure his lord would leave unseen.

Dazed, Lorenzo stepped out of the confessional, shielding his eyes to survive the strong glow of candelabras peppered around the chapel he now emerged into. The sun was still struggling outside, painting the room in gold and orange as the evening breeze banged at the window still left open. He turned once more to his assassin, about to warn him about some persistent guards on rooftops, but Giovanni shook his head firmly from the shadows of the confessional.

"Go now, Lorenzo. Make sure to proofread your novella better than your ledgers, or I might not be so gentle with my critique," he advised, his voice alight with wicked schemes as he withdrew deeper into the comfort of his hood. He had a beautiful profile, Lorenzo noted, drafting a mental note to commission his portrait while Giovanni's face was still whole and not the bloody pulp it could end up any day.

"We shall see about that, assassin." He did not resist a smile, born of the sheer thought of those few crucial details that needed altering before they were suitable for Giovanni's unpitying eye.

"Good night, Your Magnificence."

Only the flap of fabric – or that of wings – told Lorenzo his assassin was gone, leaving him alone in the chapel. One by one, he blew out the candles, those not taken by time, and closed the heavy doors behind him as he returned to his life behind.

Needless to say, his novella – as all of his meaningful words ever were – was about Giovanni Auditore.


End file.
